


Bread & Roses

by thaliachaunacy (thalialunacy)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Multi, POV Second Person, Stream of Consciousness, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-05-07
Updated: 2003-05-07
Packaged: 2017-10-26 15:27:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/284858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thalialunacy/pseuds/thaliachaunacy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one that's stream-of-consciousness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bread & Roses

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first in so many ways (first trio, first non-r/hr, first non-fluff, first non-typical) and still, I think, my best.
> 
> notes: bits taken from dave matthews, william shakespeare, james oppenheimer, marlo thomas, emily saliers, ani difranco, jim henson, st. matthew's passion, matt damon, alanis morrisette, guy ritchie. harry/ron/hermione and everything that implies. rated R (restricted) for swearing, bodily fluids and sexual situations. rated OE (overly-educated) due to its tendency to be heavy-handed post-modern blabble. 2nd person ron narration. you were warned.

as we come, unnumbered dead go crying through our singing with their ancient song of bread; small art and love and beauty their drudging spirits knew -- yes, it is bread we fight for -- but we fight for roses, too.

\---

the smell of her hair catches you on the edge of sleep. nothing flowery, just this vague clean smell that makes your mind wander to him because his skin smells the same way every night as he gets into bed, slightly damp from showering. cool air sweeps your skin as he lifts up the blankets, the mattress pulls under his presence and you turn your head towards him, keeping her body close to you, and feel his lips on yours briefly, lovingly. great warmth seeps to your chest and you tighten your hold on her while he folds his body to yours. you sleep, warm.

\---

your hand accidentally brushes his thigh in the changing room once and your ears burn for hours. even as you stutter your apologies, he looks at you with this ethereal tilt to his lips and says nothing. then it's over and you're not really sure it happened and all you have of the moment is mad blood and a roaring lack of definition.

you tell her she reads too much and her eyes narrow at you. she tells you you don't read nearly enough. your heart kind of rolls over even as you want to yell at her for nagging and you're not sure what to do. so you roll your eyes and go back to doodling in your transfiguration book. you wonder if her hair would feel as rough as it looks or as soft as her skin. you know what her skin feels like just as she knows that the scar on your arm from when you accidentally knocked over your mother's iron feels like a cold coin, the same way you know that his scar feels like a thin line of slickened wax breaking up the smooth skin of his forehead.

you hear him thrashing about in a roving nightmare and can no longer block it out. pulling your wand from the pile of robes on the floor, you find his bed in the moonlight and mutter a silencing spell. the curtains are soft in your hand he seems lost in the sheets. you sit on the edge of the bed and brush a hand across his forehead, mimicking what your mum used to do when you were attacked by dreams of spiders. he does not wake but his violent movements subside. his hand grabs yours and holds it over his heart. you stay still for what seems like hours, until he finally shifts and his fingers slacken. you sleep restlessly, cold in your own bed.

in between sleep and waking you wonder what her thigh feels like, if it's softer than his. her hands are softer, seeing as all they touch is books and quills and some dirt in herbology. one day you notice her hands amongst the plants and soil, dark and roiling like an emancipation of beauty. she has this touch about her. she touches you innocently, passing a book, with those hands. your skin flushes immediately and you think of him and her skin and it's all jumbled up in your head and your eyes burn.

the sun lazily strokes you, lying on the grass by the lake in a slight tangle of post-exam indulgence. she chatters on about arithmancy and you like the feeling of her abdominal muscles under your head moving with her words. she looks down at you and tsks about your marks. he chuckles and throws grass on both of you, causing her to shriek and twist her body so that you're trapped. heat flushes your whole self and you want out nearly as much as you want in. she hastily lets you go and he cocks an eyebrow at you. you don't know why but you reach up and punch him lightly on the shoulder, jostling him about being jealous. that ethereal half smile makes his way onto his face for the briefest of seconds and suddenly your stomach is sweating. you stand up quickly, then reach out to pull both of them up as well, saying something cheekily about supper. she rolls her eyes at you but doesn't let go of your hand as you wander up the grassy slope. his hand is on your back. you try not to shake.

\---

she reaches for you in the early light. he is asleep and will stay that way. she kisses you, runs her tongue across your lips and you are lost in her touch, your hands raking across her skin. he knows about these mornings and doesn't mind. he knows that you move over her intently, leaving marks on her neck and her taste on your lips, that you move inside her like it's home. he knows he is part of it regardless.

\---

you lay awake, your left shoulder aching and your eyes burning. no one ever warned you that the fighting would explode your dreams into green-strobed images of naked violence. you wonder if she and he are as fucked up as you are, but how could they be when she's so fucking logical and he's so fucking used to it. you ache with missing them but times of war cannot afford time for pining. you push it away.

showers help most mornings, if only for release. her curves, his beauty will never leave your consciousness. that look in her eyes when she wants you. that look in his eyes that he loves you. both unfathomable, nebulous and unspoken. but more real than any other fucking thing. you know they are still alive, for you are still slipping mindlessly from one day to the next as you wouldn't be if they had been killed. you wonder where they are. you watch the water slide down the tiles and fly from life to life, shuddering with it all. because you are still breathing in.

daily ritual turns into maniacal comfort. them vs you. death vs life. simple. easy. exhausting. you dispatch & follow orders with cold strategical brilliance. a small piece of each of them them is buried inside you, knowing what is to come. the pieces ache. but the end is coming and you'll see them again, in death or in life. you hope you'll feel it in the raindrops like some old school miracle, hear the faint murmur of their voices in the very air. then you shake your head and drink fire till you can't hope anymore. it's how it has to be.

an owl taps against your window and you nearly hex it to oblivion. months of acidic anticipation and _it is time_ , the message reads in dumbledore's flowy script. the light floods your eyes as you apparate to the dank graveyard. it's fucking ironic, you think, to be nearing the end of darkness in the blinding light of day. someday she'll write a book on it. if you all don't die here, that is. you know they're close, know evil is close, but are struck by instinct and survival as the first wave floods you and pain implodes you. you hear echoes of his fear and her agony and cannot bear it. _fuck you_ tears from your lips as you raise your very last breath and feel his power and her strength and your anger, each making the other true and good and the colors fucking explode and then it is blackness.

\---

there are no sunsets during the winter where you are. the clouds simply go from grey to black along a fuzzy continuum of lazy air and you barely notice how dark the living room is getting until there is a click and the lamp on the endtable makes you squint up, your head on her thighs, both of you enveloped in books. he smiles at you and her and jokingly nags about ruining your eyes. then he reaches down to kiss her gently and you watch, a small smile on your lips. your hand reaches up to her face and revels in the smoothness of her skin. there are new wrinkles, lessons learned and lines of change, as you're sure there are around your eyes. you don't care much anymore. she breaks from him, kisses your fingers as he tastes the skin of her neck. your blood quickens and your hand skims down her body eagerly, your lips on her stomach. he chuckles and it makes you laugh into her skin. he offers a hand and you stand but don't let him go, snugging his fingers over your steadily-beating heart. then you feel her hand over yours and his and you fall, shuddering, into them. tangled tongues and lips, passion pictures, twisting up into a secret creature. you are lost in them willingly.

\---

your mother is crying. you can't see her but you know that sound and try to reach out but you fail. mumbles from other loves are touching your ears but the only ones you want aren't there. suddenly memory grips you, grabs you in the balls and you double over, gagging into sheer nothingness, which turns out to be a basin someone placed on your lap for this simple purpose. there is vomit in it already and the smell reaches your nostrils and you nearly lose all of it again. harsh light hits you and you snap your eyes shut. you don't even fucking remember opening them and now they are stunned with pain. then you hear her moan and fumble towards the sound, even chancing the hurtful light just to see her. but her visage is more painful than a thousand suns for she's stiff with wear and tear, patches of dark purple and sharp lines of old blood. you turn away unwillingly and suddenly see him, worse then her for the haunted look in his eyes and the stark grief in his skin. sharply, you feel movement, his hand grasping yours, her fingers on your arm. then it is safe. sleep invades and the world fades to the feel of your fingers against theirs.

you wake up stickily in the dark, sweating from a misshappen chaos of well-seeming forms. dreams of then, though weeks have passed. you know it's over but you can't quite wrap yourself around it so instead you wrap yourself around them, reaching out shaking hands to touch her fingers, his arm. you see her hand trembling too and his eyes are dark with his own disillusionment. truth courses through you and you blindly pull them to you. her head rests on your shoulder and his cheek touches yours and warmth beyond life is in you. you have earned it.

the past hits you suddenly, flashes of light and mania, and they are there. he sits down next to you and she kneels at your feet, coaxing the truth out of you before it burns a hole through your heart. hotness runs down your cheek and you wipe it away angrily but she catches your hand and holds it close to her, bringing her lips to your roughly shaven face. through the blur of forgetfulness you see his hand on her shoulder and suddenly notice his other hand as a gentle pressure on your lower thigh, slowly reassuring and a sense of center fills you. finally.

you lie with them in the yard guarded by a tree next to a discarded picnic from your mother. let the healing begin. caught cuddled and dozing in the dappled lights, you shift into his neck and your half asleep lips feel him shudder. your gut turns to liquid and you know not what you do, finding the dip of his collarbone and sliding your lips along it. his hand creeps into your hair and your stomach jumps and you jerk away, colliding her soft body from half-sleep, your hand accidentally finding her hip and sliding across her stomach before you can stop yourself. your face hot, you sit up, mumbling apologies. the grass waves in the breeze and goosebumps rise on your bared arms. something shifts behind you and you realize it's not the wind, it's two hands on your back, one soft and one not. waves crash in your brain and you turn to them questioningly. his semi-ethereal smile hits you, dulled by memory but strengthened by change, and she whispers about inevitability. as through floodgates, muted words escape your lips because you can't not, streams of regret and confusion and apology and melodrama but most of all the warmth. the absolute stunning and necessary warmth that they give you in their every existance. confession is good for the soul, you heard once, and when you look up, he is nodding and she has her I've-been-right-all-along smirk, and his hand traces your cheek and you can feel his heart beating fast, just as tripped up as yours, and you're thinking that she's the only sane one here but she raises a hand to your face as well and you see that you're wrong, that you're all lost in each other. and reveling.

you reach for her first because it's easier and he doesn't mind. he sits beside you and keeps his fingers on your skin, always in contact with your manic nerves. the kiss is timid, as even though you're all adults you still feel fourteen and worry about bumping noses or breaking and entering. Your tongue reaches into her mouth of its own volition and you feel her start but she doesn't end it. you hand reaches up to cup her face but finds his instead and as if an act of god his lips are now the ones under yours and your body is in shock. shivers rise from your belly and you realize her hand is on that sensitive skin, melting the resistance and soothing the roughness. thought trailing into warmth, you sink into his lips and her touch and know nothing else.

his hands become liquid on your skin and her body envelopes you, lips on your neck and hands in your hair. her breath is hot on your cheek and your body surges towards the oblivion of their comfort. you explode in them and are found for the first fucking time. lost and found in one brilliantly executed maneuver.

the war snatched what wasn't its, leaving something behind that it thought useless. how fucking wrong it was, you think, lying with to the beauty of human form, washed in moonlit reality. your hand trails up his body and down hers, draws them from relaxed sleep with a fire that you can fully exorcise as you move over him, her hands becoming your hands becoming deep love and mingled juice and endless rescues. you promise everything to them both, wipe out the uselessness, and bring the circle back home.

\---

he still has nightmares. you wake up first and brush your hand across his forehead. you feel her reach over you to twine her fingers in with his and whisper soothing nothings. they're for you, as he won't wake. she says she loves you, says you take the fear away from him. and from her. and he rolls towards you in slumber and you find yourself wanting to lose yourself in them but know sleep is more important for him, for his dream-ravaged body. so you soothe him and you sleep, lost in them still.


End file.
